


Tuesday, 5th of August

by Kaesteranya



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:20:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesteranya/pseuds/Kaesteranya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We always seek to fill the spaces left behind by the ones we love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday, 5th of August

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the first game.

Trish knew it was that time of the year again because it took him an hour longer than usual to pick up the groceries. It was there, wrapped and slung over one shoulder, in cloth of distinctive blue silk.

 

“Sorry. They ran out of eggs.”

 

The yearly excuse didn’t change much. Last time it had been apples. Two years back, milk. Trish watched him move about their home and office from the kitchen doorframe. He dropped his guns on the couch; his sword he leaned against the dusty bookshelf. Then he checked the mail. Bills, bills, bills, a letter from Tony Redgrave. The answering machine yielded job offers. Trish paid careful attention to the details, knowing that from then until tomorrow night, she would be the one to handle them.

 

“I’ve got stuff to do. Think you could handle those?”

 

“Oh. Sure.”

 

Those words, routine. Her surprise, well-rehearsed. She had only meant it the first time around, when it had all been new and she had been foolish enough to ask him where he was going and what he was going to do. The clarity in his blue eyes at the moment he had turned to her with the answer still startled her whenever she remembered it.

 

It did not bother Trish too much anymore, the fact that she would always be second, or maybe even third, in his eyes. She knew better than he did how much that other in their circle who would never be there meant to him. He went up to take a shower and she vanished into the kitchen to make dinner; she cooked enough for herself because she knew that he wouldn’t be eating and she was right, for by the time she stepped out she was alone in the house. Trish sat down and shoveled some pasta onto her plate.

 

Elsewhere, out in the grassland beyond their ruined city, Dante was walking towards a hill with a tree and a shed made of scrap metal and driftwood. He sat down, unwrapped the sword and proceeded to sharpen and clean the blade. It was about four and a half feet in length, single-edged and fashioned in the Eastern way. He would take his time it, even though he only brought it out once a year, in the oleander season, the month for traitors.

 

Trish knew all of this because she had seen him at it once, on the second count of this practice. She never moved to follow him again and sometimes she wondered if he had known that she had seen him. Most of the time she figured it didn’t matter. They were the small hours dedicated to the one who was no longer anywhere but in Dante’s memories. There would be no tears, only this.


End file.
